Northwords Now Issue 34

The FREE literary magazine of the North


by Graham Turner

Every time we reach the gate,
the ewes, all black as pitch,
jogtrot to form a flock
and she laughs, a freefall peal,
and raps, "I've got my batches
and cookies" – making no sense
at all, up and down the glen,
but wholly finding congruence
with gorse and grass and glee.